


theoreticals

by zigsexual (anythingbutloud)



Series: hypotheticals [3]
Category: The Royal Romance (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-11-06 21:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17947616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingbutloud/pseuds/zigsexual
Summary: the coronation is actually happening feat. private planes, maxwell as a baby????? an unfortunate run in with some potpourri, dancing, drake, and an uber driver





	1. part one

Riley paces across her room yet again, halfheartedly feigning an attempt to pack for the upcoming trip to the palace. Her suitcase, empty but for a single black camisole and jeans, is splayed out across her bed next to Maxwell, who is also splayed out across her bed.

“Do you think I should bring my boots?” She asks. “My other shoes have like, _no_ tread, and all of the roads by the palace are old-ass rocks so tread is probably important. And what if it rains?”

“I don’t think it’s supposed to rain,” Maxwell replies, but she’s already tossed the boots in his direction.

“Okay, so if I bring the boots, I need boot socks,” Riley tugs open a dresser drawer, rifling through it. “Except I’m pretty sure I only have red boot socks, and that’s going to clash with all my outfits, so maybe I should just stick with a bootie? Except then the tread is an issue again.”

Maxwell laughs. “Riley, it’s _two_ days.”

She whirls around, brandishing a boot sock. “Yeah, two days in the goddamn palace!”

He breaks his gaze from the ceiling to watch her as she makes another futile pass towards her closet, sitting up and leaning back on his hands. “You really want to keep pretending you’re going to finish this tonight?”

She sighs, dropping her things onto the floor. “It’s already too late to give up.”

“Few more hours won’t hurt.” He reaches over and closes the lid, then holds out his hand. “Come on, let’s go on a walk. You’re all strung out.”

She takes his hand, in spite of herself yet again. Everything about him, about this, is in spite of herself and her better judgment. But it’s midnight on the eve of what may be their last chance at anything, and she doesn’t care that much anymore.

It’s dark in the house, the sconces dimmed, and they walk through the second floor hallways like they have the entire place to themselves. Maxwell is still holding her hand, his other shoved into his pocket, watching the portraits on the walls as they pass.

“Is that you?” Riley asks, pointing at one of the frames. It’s a painting of a boy who couldn’t be more than eight years old, posed like the subject of a renaissance art piece and clearly none too pleased about it. He’s got the same soft brown hair and mischievous eyes as Maxwell, his face dusted with freckles and mouth pulled into a barely concealed pout.

“Oh my god,” Maxwell laughs. “Yeah. That’s… yeah.”

“You were cute.” Riley bumps her hip against his, grinning. He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, looking at the painting sheepishly.

“My parents, they were really into the ‘nobles’ thing,” he says, “You know, ridiculous estates and portrait painting and etiquette classes, all that. I mean, I guess you have to be when you _are_ a noble. I mostly let Bertrand handle that stuff now.”

Riley holds out her free hand and traces the curve of his painted face, the rough brush strokes in sweeping lines under her fingertips. She smiles.

“Bertrand would kill me if he knew I was letting you touch the paintings,” Maxwell says.

“Bertrand would kill you if he knew you were letting me touch _you_.”

“Touché.”

She steps back from the portrait, squeezing Maxwell’s hand gently. “Your parents, what were they like?”

He doesn’t say anything at first, and she worries she’s treaded into inadmissible territory. She turns to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, you don’t have to—“

“No, Riley,” he smiles, but it’s sad. “It’s fine.”

He looks up at the painting for a long moment, and she wonders how much of that baby-faced boy is still a part of him. He still has those faded freckles across his cheeks, that air of something…. more, like he’s privy to a thousand secrets one could never hope to know. She suddenly wishes he were as much of an open book as he likes to say he is.

“My parents were… well, I guess they’re pretty self-explanatory.”

“What do you mean?”

He’s still got his eyes on the painting, but his jaw is set. “You’ve been in the study.”

“ _Duh_.”

He breaks for a moment, to shoot her a smile, but then he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. “So, that’s my dad.”

“The study?”

“Yeah.” He frowns. “We didn’t change anything in there after he died. It just… felt weird. And there’s already all these rooms in this place, it’s not like we needed another one. So now it’s just there, filled with polo trophies and fencing equipment and all that ‘nobles’ shit.”

“And Drake,” she adds, a tentative step towards levity. Maxwell pulls her closer, letting go of her hand so he can slip his arm around her waist. He doesn’t have to say it, but she knows he’s grateful for the reprieve.

“And Drake. Unfortunately.” He looks at her and smiles. “You would’ve liked my mom.”

“Yeah?” Riley smiles back.

“Yeah. Well, I know she would’ve liked you, anyway.”

They make their way down the rest of the hall, passing more portraits and art pieces and the occasional odd sculpture, everything in brocade like something out of her high school history books. She runs her fingers across gilded wallpaper and marble shelves, still marveling at the fact that this, somehow, has become her life.

“What’s New York like?” Maxwell asks her. “I mean, I know what the tourist parts are like, thanks to Liam, but what’s _your_ part like?”

“My part?” She tilts her head. “Uh, not that great, honestly. My part is a shitty studio in Queens with an elevator that doesn’t work, a roach problem, and a toilet that only flushes half the time. I don’t even have a bedframe, I just sleep with my mattress on the floor, and sometimes if I’m lucky, there isn’t a drunk guy peeing on my stoop when I come home from the late shift.”

“Sounds like a dream,” Maxwell says, and the funny thing is that she can’t quite tell if he’s joking or not.

“Can I quote you on that? My landlord keeps asking me to leave him a Yelp review.”

Maxwell looks puzzled. “I thought… you _didn’t_ have nobility in America?”

Riley shoots him a bemused look. “We don’t.”

“But then, why would you…?”

It takes her a moment, but then she shoves his shoulder and laughs. “Oh my god, wait, are you talking about my _landlord_? That’s the guy who owns the place I rent. It’s just like, a name for rental property owners. God, you’re such a one-percenter.”

“Shut up,” He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Things are different in Cordonia, okay?”

“I can’t believe you didn’t know what a landlord is. I can’t believe you thought landlords are literal _lords of the land_.”

Maxwell makes a face at her, and she doesn’t even remotely try to stifle her giggles. “Excuse you, the only ‘landlords’ I know _are_ literal lords of the land, so it was a _logical conclusion_.”

Riley taps him on the nose before turning away dramatically, hand on her heart. “Deepest apologies, Lord Beaumont. I would never disrespect your status or your land.”

“Hilarious.” He crosses his arms, but he’s smiling.

“Please accept this token of my atonement,” she continues, lifting some imaginary skirts so as to further sashay down the hall, “Imported from the duchy of Newest York, one hundred — no — one _thousand_ of our finest Manhattan pigeons.”

Riley dips down in a ridiculously low curtsey, stumbling forward a bit and catching herself with a laugh. “Perchance would you like to visit with one of our most prestigious landlords? He is so terribly fond of — _Max_!”

She shrieks as he comes up behind her, arms around her waist, pulling her close and spinning her. She can feel the breath of his laughter against her neck, his whispered, “ _Shhh_ , you’ll wake everyone up,” and the way his fingers linger on her when he sets her down.

Riley, flushed, brushes her hair out of her face and adjusts her shirt. “You’re the worst.”

“I accept your pigeons,” Maxwell says with mock formality. “And I would love to meet your landlord.”

“Oh, you really shouldn’t, the pigeons are fucking gross.”

“Okay, pass on the pigeons then.”

“My landlord is gross too.”

He sighs. “You’re not making a great case here.”

Riley smiles, and compelled with a sudden irresistible urge to touch him, reaches out and runs her fingers along his jawline. She almost expects to feel the brushstrokes there too, a perfect likeness of his childhood painting, all grown up and still off-limits.

“You could come visit, if you want,” she says softly. “The mattress is a twin, but we can make it work.”

He kisses her, and she closes her eyes and lets herself believe for a moment that they’re not here, not in this ridiculous world full of princes and balls and family portraits, but somewhere else, somewhere loud and brash and filled with the scent of street food and smoke and dreams yet to be realized.

But of course, they aren’t.

“Come on,” he says, his voice gentle against the sudden sharpness of the moment. “Let’s go finish packing.”

They walk back to the room hand-in-hand, and Maxwell helps her fold things and find things and then sits on the suitcase so she can shove everything in properly and zipper it away. The sky stops getting darker and starts getting lighter, and the laughter between them grows less practiced and more delirious as they finish up.

She smiles when she steps out of her bathroom, face washed and hair up, to find him tucked in against her pillow, finally stolen into sleep by his own exhaustion. It’s a rare occasion to find Maxwell so utterly still, and she stands there for a second watching him.

She’s known for quite some time that she’s fucked. This whole situation: the competition, the prince, the stupid stupid boys. She’s just fucked, no way around it.

But as she lingers in the doorway, memorizing the rise and fall of his chest, it occurs to her that she is now — for lack of a better term — _royally_ fucked.

—

It’s as if she’s barely slept at all when she feels his hand on her shoulder. “Riley? Hey, time to get up.”

She burrows her face back towards her pillow, trying desperately to shut out the light filtering in through the curtains. Maxwell, however, refuses to be shut out.

“We’re leaving in an hour or so, if you want to get ready.” He sounds just as tired as she feels, and she realizes then that he’s most likely spent the entire night here, with her, probably shoved into the corner while she bundled herself in covers. The thought makes her sit up suddenly, blinking blearily into Maxwell’s face, only a few inches from hers.

“Oh,” he says. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she says back.

They look at each other for a moment, Riley squinting up at him as she adjusts to the rush of sunlight. Under the sudden scrutiny of his gaze, she pulls the blankets up around her, a flush spreading into her cheeks as she realizes what she must look like: hair a tangled mess, sleep marks across her face, oversized t-shirt hanging in a particularly unflattering way.

“What’s the ‘Knicks’?” Maxwell asks.

“Hmm?” She quirks an eyebrow in confusion, and he nods at her shirt. She looks down. “Oh. Basketball team. They’re the… uh, the professional team for New York.”

“Do you like them?”

“I like their shirts.”

He laughs, turning away from her to slip down onto the floor. “Sometime, will you teach me what basketball is?”

“You guys don’t have basketball in Cordonia?” Riley lets the blankets fall back around her and pushes herself out of the bed with the intent to follow him, but the hardwood is like ice against her feet. She lingers near the familiar warmth of the covers while she watches him go.

“We don’t have a lot of stuff in Cordonia,” he answers. “Basketball, Disneyland, those breakfast things you like.”

“Pop-tarts?” Riley grins, crossing her arms. “Yeah, real bummer on that one.”

“Prom, Costco, monster trucks,” Maxwell continues, “And we’ve barely even got you for much longer, so.”

The words hit her harder than expected, and the smile drops from her face just as her arms fall to her sides. The chill of the floor spreads up from her feet, twisting its way through her body and settling in her heart.

Maxwell heads towards her suitcase. He lifts it down off the table, yanks the handle up until it clicks. “Come on, you gotta get dressed. I’ll take your bag out to the car.”

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, hands fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “Will you come back?”

He turns his head, eyes ghosting over her face as she bites harder into her lip.

“Riley…” he says, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, totally.” She crosses her arms over her chest, pulling her shoulders up in what she hopes looks like a nonchalant shrug. “Just, big day, you know.”

“Understatement.” He smiles at her, and the sinking feeling subsides.

“What should I wear?” she asks, in a feeble attempt to keep him in the room a few moments longer.

“Definitely just that. The king and queen will be so impressed.”

“Shut _up_.” She sticks her tongue out, reaching back to pull the comforter up from the bed and around her shoulders before crossing toward the closet.

“No I’m serious, the press will not be able to stop talking about it. Bertrand will _love_ that.”

She whacks him with the comforter as she passes. “You know what else Bertrand will love?”

“What?”

“You spending the night in my room.”

He laughs. “Okay, okay, point taken.” He turns to grab her suitcase, but not fast enough to keep her from noticing the blush rising in his cheeks. She laughs too, pulling open her closet door.

“Go get dressed,” he calls after her, “I’m actually taking your stuff out this time.”

“As you wish, Lord Beaumont.” She twirls around to drop in a curtsey, blowing him a kiss as he makes a face at her and heads out the door.

—

Riley wakes up to Maxwell once more, her face smashed in against his shoulder in the back of the car. She lifts her head, blinking the sleep out of her eyes, only to meet Bertrand’s disapproving ones.

“You have lines on your face,” he says disdainfully. “You look wretched.”

Riley sits up, rolling her neck and wincing. “Thanks, B. Are we at the airport?”

“Yeah,” Maxwell answers, seemingly unfazed by her using his arm for a pillow. She hopes she didn’t drool. “There’s coronation traffic, but that’s to be expected. We’ll be at the plane in five.”

Riley looks out the window, expecting to see the familiar bustle of brake lights and taxicabs that punctuate all her visits to JFK. However, all she finds is a great wide sea of black tarmac and planes.

She turns to Maxwell and Bertrand. “Wait, where are we?”

“The airport.”

“No, I — yeah, I know that. But where are the people?”

Maxwell looks confused. “…On the planes?”

“Don’t we, y’know, have to go through security and stuff? Or is that not a thing in Cordonia? Or like, don’t I need to show someone my passport and check my bag?” She nods her head in the direction of the trunk. “That thing is not gonna fit in an overhead compartment, I can already promise you that.”

The car slows to a stop and Maxwell laughs. “What? Riley, we’re broke, but we aren’t _fly commercial_ broke.”

Riley says “Oh,” and then someone in a full suit and black sunglasses is opening her car door and saying, “Lady Riley, I’ll be taking your bags,” and she says “Oh,” and Maxwell says, “Thanks, they’re in the trunk.”

Riley whips her head around to face him, eyes wide. Maxwell shrugs. “Liam has a plane.”

Her eyes go even wider, and she pauses to make sure Bertrand is mostly out of earshot before whispering, “You didn’t think to tell me we’d be in an enclosed space with _Liam_ for an extended period of time?”

He smiles sheepishly. “Well, the thought crossed my mind, but I was worried you’d try to cut your losses and run before we got here. And besides, he told me he wanted some time with you. To talk about something.”

Riley shoots him a pointed look before turning to slide out of the car. Talk to her about something! Great. What a _mystery_ as to what it could possibly be.

The man in the suit, most likely a member of Liam’s security team, is already unloading their things from the trunk. She squints into the sunlight, eyes settling on the enormous white jet just a few hundred feet from their stop, its wings ringed with gold and an egregiously large Cordonian seal plastered along the side.

“Discreet,” Riley mutters, sighing as she heads off towards the staircase lowered down from the plane’s back entrance. She’s never boarded a plane like this before, not without hours of waiting and TSA screenings and watching as every other boarding group took their place ahead of her in line. The tiny staircase seems too easy, and the staff waiting at the bottom are too quick to offer her their arms as she climbs up into the ridiculous fixture of luxury.

As she makes her way inside, wandering slowly towards the aisle, she gawks at the interior: a scaled down recreation of the palace sitting areas, complete with ornate lamps and crystal stemware and what looks to be an entire grand piano off in the corner. Riley feels her stomach clench at the sight of it all, a reminder of how desperately she doesn’t belong in this world of opulence and glamour.

There’s a rustle of a curtain and footsteps behind her, and she turns, expecting to see Maxwell on his way in. She’s already whispering, “Max, I think I should—” before her eyes settle on the person who’s actually in front of her and she stops mid-sentence. “Oh, fuck.”

Drake looks her over and frowns.

“What are you doing here?!” she hisses, shoving him in the shoulder. “And why are you sneaking up on me?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he answers, leveled. “Pretty sure your boyfriend is still back at the car.”

Riley shakes her head, letting out an agonized sigh. “I am truly not in the mood for this, Drake.”

“Aldridge, you going soft? Can’t handle the banter anymore?”

“On _Liam’s goddamn plane_? Yeah, maybe it’s not the _ideal_ choice of venue.” She crosses her arms, but her defense wavers. “Drake… you didn’t… I mean, you didn’t say anything, did you?”

He rolls his eyes. “Relax, I’m not that much of an asshole. Liam’s on a conference call in the diplomat suite anyway.”

“Diplomat suite?”

“It’s a big fucking plane.”

Riley lets her hands fall back to her sides, glancing around the room once more, eyes following the rows of soft leather seats.

“Well, thanks, I guess.”

He shrugs, looking everywhere but at her. “I know you’ll talk to him. You don’t need me to do it for you.”

She lets out a sigh. “Maxwell said he invited me on the plane so we could talk, so if you’re awaiting my downfall, it might come sooner than you think.”

“I’m not —” Drake looks taken aback, “Riley, come on, you know that’s not how I feel.”

She starts to say something in reply, but the sounds of footsteps coming up the staircase echo loudly into the cabin. Drake turns, and Riley feels her nervous tension ease. Maxwell is finally here, he’ll know how to handle Drake and she can just —

“Riley,” an all too familiar voice calls, “Is that you harping on and on in there?”

Riley grabs Drake’s arm, face twisted in horror, and mouths, _Olivia?_ He nods, looking slightly pained, and then there she is at the landing — mouth twisted in distaste, red hair spilling out of a white fur hat, sheathed in some sort of emerald green evening coat that could probably cover Riley’s apartment rent for the next ten years.

Her mouth curls up into a smile when she sees them. “Oh lovely, I was right.”

She steps into the room, her heels clicking against the hardwood, and drapes her arm across Drake’s shoulder, leaning against him as she surveys Riley. “You do know we’re going to a coronation _ball_ , right?”

“Wonderful to see you too, Olivia,” Riley replies with a grimace.

Olivia smiles again, straightening up and patting Drake dismissively on the back. “Hey Drake, will you be a dear and roll out the bar cart? I have a feeling we’re going to need some drinks.”

Drake rolls his eyes so hard it almost looks painful. “Sure Olivia, I will happily roll out the bar cart. For myself.”

As he turns and pushes past her, she frowns, watching him walk away with a hand on her hip. When he disappears through the cabin door, she looks back at Riley. “Is he always so pleasant?”

“Pretty much, yeah. You’d think you two would get along.”

Olivia arches an eyebrow. “Cute.”

She hears someone else coming up the stairs and prays it’s Maxwell this time. When she sees him step inside, she releases an audible sigh.

“Hey Riley, did Bertrand already come up here? I think he — oh.” His eyes fall on Olivia, who flutters her fingers in a wave. “Olivia?”

“And Drake.” Riley smiles through gritted teeth. “Isn’t it wonderful? Gang’s all here.”

Maxwell blinks. “Uh. Cool?”

Drake emerges from the door then, glass in hand, and stops short when he sees Maxwell. “Hey Max! Long time no see. _Great_ talking with you in the study last night.”

Riley glares with the ferocity of a thousand suns. Maxwell blinks again. Olivia looks between all three of them and rolls her eyes. “You guys are so fucking weird.”

She turns toward the closest seat and settles in, draping her legs across the length of it so the red bottoms of her high heels are on full display. She pulls an eye mask out of her purse, tugging it over her head. “I’m going to take a Xanax and listen to Ryan’s Roses. Do not even think about speaking to me.”

“Trust me,” Riley says under her breath, “It was the least of our concerns.”

 


	2. part two

In what can only be described as a full circle moment, Riley grips the sides of the gilded sink in front of her and stares herself down in the mirror yet again, willing some semblance of courage to emerge and push her out the bathroom door into the waiting ballroom. So far, no such luck — though she’s at least kept from crying this time around. A small victory, considering how long the assembly line of official royal makeup artists had spent on her face.

She’d never even seen Liam on the plane — he’d been stuck in the so-called “diplomat suite” the entire flight — but the anxiety of the potential encounter had kept her on-edge the whole time. Perhaps she could’ve deluded herself for a moment that she’d escaped unscathed, if it weren’t for the familiar crest on the tiny card left for her in the palace powder room. Of course Liam would apologize for not being able to see her, of course he would send a note. It’s the royal thing to do.

Her red dress, albeit beautiful, feels like a lie. Maybe that’s what’s keeping her stuck in this room. She wants nothing more than to go unnoticed, to slip away quietly, as softly as the satin of the gown.

“Riley?” Hana’s waiting at the door, having promised she wouldn’t head into the celebration without her. “Do you need help with anything?”

Wordlessly, Riley turns away from her damaged reflection and opens the door, managing a weak smile for her equally as flustered friend. Honestly, she shouldn’t be the one causing a scene when Hana has enough on her plate to topple even the most practiced façade. “Nah, I’m good. Shall we?”

They find Drake easily enough: he’s sulking by the appetizers. Riley is fairly certain her presence won’t help his mood much, but there isn’t anyone else she and Hana can hang with. He looks up when he sees them approaching, then right back down at the glass in his hands as soon as his eyes fall on Riley’s dress.

Riley plucks some shrimp cocktail off a nearby plate and sinks against the wall next to him.

“You look… nice,” he manages, still deliberately not catching her eye. Hana has been apprehended by some noble near the pâté bar and is shooting furtive glances in their direction, but he doesn’t seem to be letting up.

“Looks like you’re stuck with just me,” Riley says, biting into her shrimp. “Sorry.”

“Eh,” Drake shrugs. “You’re not the worst person here, Aldridge.”

Riley glances over at his drink. “Whiskey?”

In response, he merely raises it up and takes a long sip. “Maxwell?”

“Touché.”

Drake nods, surveying the room. Riley follows his gaze through the throngs of dancing courtiers, the exact opposite of the lives they both should be living. Liam is at the center of it all, shaking hands with dignitaries and bowing to nobles, pressing kisses to cheeks as he greets what must be the hundredth well-wisher today, each time still somehow fresh. Something in her heart aches for him, though she knows it’s not the ache he would want it to be.

“If it makes you feel any better, it just… _happened_ ,” she says. “I mean, it wasn’t like — god, I don’t know.”

“Does anyone?”

She reaches over, pulls the whiskey from his hands, and throws back a long drink. He surveys her warily as she swallows, holding it back out to him.

“Thanks.”

“Well, I guess if I’m offering.”

Riley leans her head back against the wall, staring up at the intricately decorated ceiling. Trust the palace to keep even their ceilings interesting. “I _know_ he’s great. Liam, I mean. Like, I know that.”

“No one’s arguing that point.”

She turns her head to face him, even as he doesn’t meet her eyes. “You’ll make sure he gets someone great, right? That he’s happy when all this mess is over?”

“I wish I could promise you that.”

He looks tired.

“Aldridge…”

“Don’t lecture me, or whatever.”

“I wasn’t.”

She eats another shrimp.

He sighs. “Look, I know it’s been kind of… weird, between us.”

Riley scoffs, still chewing. “Oh, you think? I can’t catch a date in New York for _four years_ and now suddenly I’m like, a Cordonian ten. I mean,” she swallows, shaking her head, “what are the standards in this country when it comes to women? Have any of you ever seen one, or is it just like, Madeleine and Olivia all the damn time?”

“You underestimate yourself,” Drake says.

“Okay, well, you _would_ say that, since you’re a biased Cordonian party.”

He laughs, rolling his eyes. “Sure, whatever. I’m just trying to say… obviously I care about you, regardless.”

“Yeah,” Riley nods. “Yeah, I know.”

The background chatter of the room fills the silent space between them, an amicable sort of antisocial moment blooming, like a flower you never particularly wanted, but aren’t entirely unhappy with. Riley looks out towards the ballroom floor and sees Hana, caught up in a traditional dance with the same guy from the pâté bar. She looks about as thrilled as she did near the appetizers, and Riley makes a mental note to plot some diversionary tactic to save her.

Drake seems to be lost in thought. He looks rather sheepish, worn down by their moment of honesty and clearly dreaming of anywhere but here. God, he has this brooding loner shit down to an art by now.

“So,” She elbows him as he lifts up his glass to take a sip. “When did you first realize you wanted to jump me?”

He coughs violently, tensing up and glaring at her. “ _Jesus_ , Riley.”

She tilts her head and smiles. “Just curious.”

“Fine, two can play at that game. When did _you_ first realize you wanted to jump Maxwell?”

“I don’t know, I told you. It just happened.”

“Sure.”

“He’s just…” She looks up, searching for the words. “He’s the only one who makes me feel like all of this crazy shit is worth something, y’know? Like… like I’m actually _supposed_ to be here.” She gestures out at the crowd of guests. “Even with all this, he doesn’t ask to me to be anything other than who I already am. He’s always treated me like I matter, even back in New York in my godawful bar clothes — he believed in me. He _believes_ in me. Even when I don’t.”

She turns to Drake, and his expression is one of somber resignation.

“Cool.” He looks at his glass, then downs the rest of the drink. “Can’t wait to give the wedding toast.”

She makes a face in an attempt to hide the blush rising in her cheeks. “Who said you were invited?”

In response, he merely raises an eyebrow.

She sighs. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

He shrugs. “Who else is there to tell?”

There’s a pause between them, and then she hears the voice.

“Riley?”

Distant, but. It’s him.

Drake rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile at his lips. “I’m gonna get a double,” he says, sidling away from the wall and raising his glass to her in exit. “Cheers.”

She opens her mouth to reply, but the moment is lost as he slips away through the crowd, head down. The image of his shattered face in the study washes over her; the way his eyes traveled down her dress just now. She recalls how just yesterday his expression had hardened, guarded, as she stumbled over her words trying to explain the circumstances of her and Maxwell; only the ghost of a feeling left in his eyes as he stood behind the desk like it was a shield.

Her heart aches a little for him too. But it could never be enough.

When she turns, Maxwell is just a few feet from her, adorable as ever. “Sorry. Did I interrupt?”

“Actually, your timing is uncharacteristically impeccable.” She holds out her hand. “Shrimp?”

“I’ve already had like fifteen,” he laughs.

“Oh, well, in that case.” Riley pops the last bite in her mouth. “What’s up?”

“It’s the sponsors dance,” he says, running his hand through his hair absently, “It’s sort of a tradition, for the suitors to have one last display together.”

“Oh, fuck,” Riley squeezes her eyes shut, grimacing. “I have to dance in front of everyone again, don’t I?”

“Well, pretty much this entire _thing_ has been in front of everyone, so…”

“Not helping.”

Maxwell puts his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry. It’ll be fun. Unless you want to dance with Bertrand?”

She finally cracks a smile, and he lets his hand fall down to hers, pulling her gently in the direction of the assembling couples in the ballroom.

When they step out onto the floor, Riley is struck with a sudden acute awareness of how ridiculously enormous the ball is. It feels like the entire population of Cordonia is smashed into this one room, watching her.

She tightens her grip on Maxwell’s hand. “I really don’t know how to dance, Maxwell. Like I truly have _no_ idea what I’m doing.”

“It’s okay,” he says, “I’ll lead you. You did fine with the waltz at Olivia’s place; you just have to follow what I do.”

“Yeah, but Olivia’s place wasn’t the biggest fucking event of this entire country.”

“Neither is this one, to be honest.” Maxwell glances around at the crowd. “We had a much better turnout when One Direction toured here.”

“I’m serious!” Riley hisses, but the laughter in her eyes betrays her. Maxwell smiles, taking her other hand in his and placing it on his shoulder.

“You keep your hand here, on the seam,” he explains, slipping his free arm around her to rest his hand against her shoulder blade. “Then you hold your arm with mine out at an angle like this.”

The music is starting up, and she can feel her heartbeat quickening.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “My hand is like, really sweaty.”

“You’ll be fine,” Maxwell reassures. “It’s three steps, okay? Just do what I’m doing.”

She nods, looking down at his feet, trying her best to memorize the one-two-three of the tempo.

He watches her watching him. “You’re awfully calm, all things considering.”

She flicks her eyes back up to his face, raising an eyebrow. “’All things considering’?”

“Ah — you know what I mean.”

She ducks her head to hide her smile, focusing on the movements of the rhythm. Honestly, it’s hopeless and she knows it, but he doesn’t seem to care. She’s a little stiff, a little cumbersome, but when she steps on his foot for the third time he conceals the twinge of pain that flashes across his face fairly well.

“Sorry,” she says.

“It’s fine. You’re fine.”

“Well, also the hand, too. It’s really sweaty.”

“Not _that_ sweaty.”

“That’s so sweet, but you’re lying.”

She holds his shoulder tighter, pulling him imperceptibly closer. He looks at her, like he’s seeing into her soul, like he knows exactly how her fingers have found purchase in the same place the night before.

“I, um,” she has to look away, to regain her composure for a moment, “I’m gonna… I’m gonna miss —”

“Tell me more about New York,” he says suddenly.

“Oh. Okay. The bad stuff, or just the good stuff?”

“All the stuff.”

She thinks, and the music fills the silence between them. She only stumbles a little on the twirl.

“Alright. So there’s this homeless guy outside my subway stop — well, let me clarify, there’s almost always a homeless guy outside _every_ subway stop, but this one is the same guy every day. I usually pass him if I’m working a night shift, and I guess he must recognize me by now because he always says, ‘keep fighting!’ whenever I see him.”

“Keep fighting what?”

“I don’t know. ‘The Man,’ I guess? Anyway that’s not even… that’s not even a good story, I don’t know why I told you — shit! Sorry, oh god, that’s your foot.”

“I’ve been through worse, promise. Keep going.”

“Okay. Um, anyway, what I was trying to get at there is that there’s a local camaraderie, almost like… patriotism? I guess you could call it that. Sort of this feeling that you’re all in it together, but no one’s going to fuck with you. Or maybe that’s just the US in general.”

“I wouldn’t know, you’re one of the only Americans I’ve met.”

“Really?”

“Apples aren’t the biggest tourist attraction.”

“You know they call New York ‘The Big Apple’?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She shifts her weight, trying to match his pace. “Your turn now; tell me about Cordonia.”

“What do you want to know?”

Riley shakes her head at him. “You always say that! Maybe I don’t want to ask. Maybe I want you to tell me what you think I should know.”

Somehow throughout the course of the dance, they’ve gotten considerably closer: his hand has fallen to her waist, her fingers curled around his shoulder like a lifeline. Riley feels a rush of something warm and dizzy, struck with the thought of leaning in and resting her head against his chest, of closing her eyes and giving up on the pretenses and just — being.

“Okay,” he looks up, thinking, “Well, my family had this country estate, sort of out more in the hills, near Applewood. Really ridiculous house with a vineyard and a stable and tennis courts and all that. And before my mom died, we used to spend the summers there, get away from the court for a while.”

“How old were you? When… when your mom…?”

He tries to smile, to reassure her maybe, but it doesn’t hit his eyes. “Not old enough.”  
  


She squeezes his hand.

“So, um, the summer, that’s when most of the noble houses get out of the capitol. A lot of them go to the beach, or to the lake, but we were out in the fields and there wasn’t much else around for miles. I used to think it was so boring, just us out there playing doubles or polo, and I’d try and convince my mom to have all these garden parties just so I could see someone else my age. I’d take the horses out as far as I could get them, and I was _always_  getting lost, and Bertrand always had to come and find me — god, I must have annoyed him to death —”

“You, lost?” Riley grins. “I’d never believe it.”

“Very funny.”

There’s barely a whisper of space between them now.

“Anyway, I —” he purses his lips, “Well, my dad sold the estate after my mom died. We just… never went back. I wish I could take you; I keep thinking about it, wondering what it’s like there now. Sometimes I feel like that place is all I have left of my mom. And it’s been so… comfortable, having you in the house all the time. I… I don’t know what I’m saying. I just wish she could’ve met you.”

“Max…” she starts to say, trailing off before anything of substance emerges. Her mind floods with memories: laughing with her dress stuck over her head, the swell of bravery with his hand in hers at the breakfast table, his sad smile as he stood in her room holding her suitcase.

She bites her lip hard against the feeling, but it wells up inside her anyway, unquenchable and strong. It’s almost freeing, finally having something so terrifying being so palpable. Her hands are trembling.

“Hey,” Maxwell says, his voice lowered. “Riley, are you crying?”

“No,” she says, but she is.

He looks both startled and shattered, and seeing him like that breaks apart her final shreds of composure. The tears blur her vision, cut down her face in crooked lines.

“I just…. I, um,” she swallows hard, shaking her head. “I have to… give me a minute, okay?”

She doesn’t wait for him to reply, only pulls away, wiping roughly at her eyes with the back of her hand. This isn’t how she wanted tonight to go; this isn’t how she wanted him to remember her.

She walks quickly off the ballroom floor, head bowed and cursing the flamboyant red dress she had thought so momentous at the time. She’d give anything to be back in her forgettable blue thing right now.

The bathroom is just outside the ballroom entrance, much to her relief, and she crumples against the door the moment it’s shut. The wave of emotion is beginning to subside, but the aftershocks are brutal and raw. She reaches for one of the ridiculous monogrammed hand towels hung about the room and presses her face into it, breathing slowly.

It’s barely been a minute before the door swings open and Riley lets out a tiny shriek, stumbling forward. She hears a loud scoff from behind her, and whirls around in defensive mode, only to find herself face to face with a scowling Olivia.

“What the fuck?” Riley squeaks out, steadying herself on a towel rack. “This bathroom is _occupied_!”

Olivia puts a hand on her hip, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, I know. And it’s about to be even more occupied, so move over.”

She shoves herself in even as Riley stands agape, still clutching the towels. Olivia motions towards the door, but when Riley continues to stare, she sighs and kicks it closed with one strappy stiletto.

“What the fuck are you _doing_?” Riley squeaks.

Olivia surveys her warily. “You’re hardly the one who should be asking that. What are you doing crying in palace ballrooms? God, you’re embarrassing.”

Riley wipes at the smudged mascara under her eyes. “Just my luck that _you’re_ the person who follows me in here.”

Olivia sighs, examining her nails. “Look, I’m not here to give you a pep talk. I’ve been trying to get you alone all night.” She glances back up, her expression unreadable. “We need to have a chat. This is as good an excuse as any.”

Riley sets the towels down near the sink, reaching up to rub at her temples once her hands are free. “Well, get it over with. This night couldn’t possibly suck more.”

“And people say _I’m_ dramatic.” Olivia crosses her arms, but the guarded expression doesn’t change. “Look, you know what this is about. You’re not exactly subtle. Flirting at brunch? That atrocious shirt dress that was _clearly_ unplanned? All those long-suffering looks?”

Of all the things Olivia might want to fling at her now, this was the last one she could have expected. Riley freezes, then slowly lowers her hands down, staring up at Olivia. “Sorry… _what_?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t bother being coy about it. I make a point of knowing everyone’s business, especially when it’s juicy. And you, Miss America, are fresh squeezed.”

“God, really?” Riley grimaces. “Can’t you just accuse me of some shit like a normal person?”

“Fine.” Olivia steps back, surveying Riley disdainfully. “How long have you been fucking him?”

“Fucking who?” She stares. “ _Liam_?”

Olivia barks out a laugh. “No, oh my god! Don’t flatter yourself. Liam is _such_ a virgin. Trust me, if he so much as saw a boob, I would know. I’m talking about your man on the side. You know: brown hair, blue eyes, always wears the same shirt?”

Oh god. Oh, shit.

“I—” Riley tries to come up with an excuse, but Olivia just stares her down even more, and look — everyone has a breaking point.

“Fuck.” Her shoulders slump, and she falls back against the sink, running a hand through her hair. “How did you know?”

Olivia throws up her hands. “God, I _just_ told you how. Honestly, you think nobody saw you come out of the Beaumont hookup study with your hair looking even worse than usual? I know scandals when I see them. I only came on Liam’s plane today to confirm my suspicions. I _do_ have my own plane, you know.”

“Of course you do.” Riley replies dryly.

“But that’s beside the point.” Olivia leans against a table laden with potpourri, tapping her fingernails against one of the bowls. “You’re really going to stand here and cry about your double life while the rest of us get flushed down the drain? This isn’t a joke, you know. This is a _crown_.”

“I know.”

“And to think that Liam is out there probably planning to make you the Queen, god knows why, and you’re off dreaming of sucking some broke asshole’s dick —”

Riley straightens up, eyes wide. “Who told you that?”

“What?” Olivia blinks at her, disinterested. “That you suck dick?”

“ _No_ , I was talking about the Beaumonts being broke. God, Bertrand is going to absolutely slaughter me for letting that one get out.” She groans, twisting her fingers back into her hair, before narrowing her eyes at Olivia. “Hey, and you know what? Fuck you, really, because it’s not like I wanted —”

Olivia cuts her off sharply, “Holy shit, you’re fucking _Bertrand_?”

“ _What_?!” Riley screeches. “God, _no_! No, Jesus fucking Christ, no.” She gags, partly in pantomime and partly at the sheer horror of the mental image. “I would rather peel all the skin off my whole body and bathe in bleach.”

“Then why are you even talking about the Beaumonts?” Olivia’s veneer of authority has begun to wear down, and she looks almost confused now, her fingernails tapping even faster.

Riley swallows.

“What you said, before…” She can already feel the blood draining from her face, the sweat pooling in her clenched hands, “My, um, my ‘man on the side’? Uh… who were you talking about?”

“Who the fuck do you think?” Olivia says. “The only broke asshole in everyday chambray who you ever talk to.”

“Oh my god,” Riley’s mouth falls open. “ _Drake_?”

She can almost see the wheels in Olivia’s head spinning full gear now, desperately piecing together the new information that she, in all her punchdrunk idiocy, had quite literally volunteered. God, truly her finest hour. Shitshow part three.

Olivia is lost in thought, eyebrows furrowed, crunching pieces of potpourri into dust between her fingers as she thinks.

“So,” she finally says, “You’re… _not_ fucking Drake.”

“No.”

“And the Beaumonts are… broke?”

Riley bites her lip. “Yeah, can you maybe not tell —”

“Shut up.” Olivia holds up a hand. “You’re telling me that when you disappeared during that god-awful croquet game, you _weren’t_ inside getting it on in the Beaumont study?”

Riley hesitates.

Olivia raises an eyebrow. “I see.”

She studies Riley for a moment, then her entire expression changes to one of absolute dumbfounded shock.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, stepping closer and looking Riley directly in the eyes. “… _Maxwell_?”

Riley’s resolve fails, and everything comes tumbling out before she can stop it, “Olivia, please, don’t say anything, I am going to talk to Liam tonight I _promise_ I am going to set everything right and then I’ll leave court okay? I’ll leave, I don’t want to keep fucking things up anymore, but just please don’t tell Madeleine or whoever else in your harem of cronies wants to ruin my life, because frankly I am just _done_ , I’m tired, and I just —” she takes a deep breath, then sinks down onto the toilet seat in a heap of red satin. “God, I don’t know.”

Olivia watches her talk, expression unreadable, her eyes flickering across Riley’s face. She appears almost like a movie critic, surveying an art, pen poised to decide its fate.

When Riley stills, Olivia squats down, level with her. “Okay, first of all? Let’s get one thing straight. Never in my life would I tell any sort of information to Madeleine. That woman is a scum-sucking witch plucked from the ninth circle of hell and stapled into the body of some 90’s has-been CW actor with a penchant for off-season jewel tones. She is the bubonic plague in human form and I loathe her.”

“Oh,” Riley says. “Um. My mistake.”

“Second,” Olivia stands, brushing off her dress, “You’re an idiot. A prince wants to marry you, and you seriously want to jump Maxwell? You _do_ know that when he was thirteen he still believed in Santa Claus, right?”

Riley shrugs.

Olivia waves her hand dismissively, “You know what, whatever. Your funeral. I just wanted to know that I was right, and seeing as you’re just as guilty as presumed, I’m counting this one as a win.”

Riley stands up begrudgingly, shaking out the wrinkles in her dress. “I hate you.”

“Aw, that’s sweet. I hate you too.” Olivia has a hand on the doorknob, but at the sound of Riley’s shoes on the marble floor, she turns back.

“Hey,” she says, “Question: if you’re not fucking Drake, do you know if anyone else is fucking him?”

“Uh, not that I know of.” Riley cocks her head. “Why?”

“No reason,” Olivia says coyly, shutting the door behind her with a decisive _click_.

 


	3. part three

Well.

Riley takes a deep breath, attempting to calm the absolute whirlwind of thoughts in her head that are, at any moment, threatening to become a hurricane. She can’t take the waterworks again, not when she’s finally stopped crying. She turns slightly to catch herself in the mirror, rubbing at the last smears of mascara with her thumb. The girl who looks back reminds her far too much of the girl who used to stare out from the curve of a freshly washed spoon in a New York bar. A reflection of another time; a defeated time.

She rolls her shoulders back. Today is not the day for defeat. At least, not yet.

When she emerges back out into the hallway, she’s relieved to find it near deserted but for a few of the king’s guard. One of them spots her and turns to the others, whispering something. She raises her hand in a brief wave, quickening her pace back towards the ballroom. Now is _not_ the time to be intercepted and interrogated about her whereabouts.

She rounds the corner too quickly, head turned back to be sure none of the guards are still watching her, and nearly collides with Liam, who is also taking his corners too fast.

“Lady Riley!” he says, catching her by the shoulders before she can fully crash into him. His eyes, surprised and earnest, wash over her in such a way that she can feel herself beginning to blush.

“Hey,” she replies, mouth quirked up in a sheepish half-smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”

He laughs, dropping his hands back to his sides. Riley can’t quite meet his gaze; the full measure of him is just so… well, there was a reason she had decided to come to Cordonia in the first place. Liam is still Liam, still resplendent with that aura of dignity he carries so easily, still with that face like her teenage daydreams.

And now, this. This utter mess she’s made with his heart. No, there are too many reasons to keep her eyes downcast, fingers toying with the satin of her gown.

Liam’s voice drops lower. “I’ve actually been meaning to speak to you, if you have a moment?”

“For you?” Riley shrugs. “Of course.”

“There’s a family garden out back,” he holds out his arm, and she takes it, hesitantly. “The guests aren’t allowed out there, so we won’t be interrupted.”

She smiles, but it comes off more pained than pleased. “Oh, I mean there’s no need to, ah… we can just talk here, if you want?”

“I think it’d be better to have some privacy,” Liam says, and the air of finality to his statement pulls Riley reluctantly along with him.

The ‘family garden,’ another one of Liam’s modest descriptors, turns out to be a sprawling thing almost double the size of the palace itself, adorned at every turn with manicured greenery and delicately arranged flowers. Even the cobblestone paths seem somewhat luxurious, which is a relief to Riley as it means Liam won’t fault her for looking everywhere but at him.

“I’m glad you came here,” he says. “It’s been a joy getting to know you, and seeing you defy the odds against you. You have a very particular kind of strength about you that I admire.”

“Thank you,” Riley says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m sure you must have some idea of what I wish to speak with you about.” His brow furrows, and he looks off towards the lights of the palace. “I hope… I hope this doesn’t come as a surprise.”

Riley turns, finally, to look at him, her heart pounding in her chest, “Liam, I —”

“I can’t marry you.”

Riley’s mouth falls open. “Hold on, _what_?”

“Oh —” Liam looks taken aback. “Did I misjudge?”

“Misjudge?” Riley stops walking, dropping his arm so she can stand in front of him, staring. “Misjudge what?”

“You,” Liam says gently, his eyes sweeping across her face, “Your heart.”

“My…” Riley reaches up and presses her hand to her mouth. “Oh.”

 _Oh_.

“I thought as much,” Liam sighs. “I know I’ve been quite open about my affection for you, and I worried you might feel… obligated? Perhaps that’s too strong a word, but it troubles me to think that you might not be living the life you want. With the person you want to live it with.”

Riley feels her heart in her throat. She presses her hand harder against her lips.

“I suppose I wanted the chance to tell you all this before the official announcement to the court. I wanted you to know that your presence here has never been anything but a gift, and I’ve never expected anything in return.”

She nods.

“All that to say… I’m not going to ask you to marry me tonight. Or any night, for that matter. I didn’t want you to spend the whole ball fretting over the possibility of it, when you could just be enjoying yourself.”

She nods again, swallowing against the lump in her throat. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

The breezes rustles against them, the gentle scrape of leaves echoing in the wind.

Liam laughs softly, “It’s funny, Drake had always mentioned that you —”

“Oh my god,” Riley squeaks, voice sharp with panic, “No, Liam, oh my god. It’s not Drake. I’m not — we’re not — I would _never_ —”

Liam laughs even more at her response, stunning her into silence. “Riley, I  _know_. It’s my job to be aware of what happens in my court.”

“Oh.” Riley hates herself. “Uh, just wanted to… y’know, clarify that.”

“He does have a fondness for you, though,” Liam muses.

“He _told_ you?”

“Well, not in so many words. I asked him once what he thought of you, and he said you were ‘almost passable,’ so I drew my own conclusions.”

“Wow,” Riley crosses her arms across her chest. “High praise from Drake.”

“The highest.”

“Can we… uh,” Riley nods towards a nearby stone bench, nestled amongst the rosebushes. “Can we sit down? Sorry, this is just…”

“A lot?”

“A lot.”

They both sit, Riley sweeping her skirts underneath her to allow Liam more space. There’s a fountain not far off, reflecting the lights from the party beyond, although the splashes of water are the only sounds of civilization she can hear.

“I’ve wanted to tell you,” Riley says nervously, “I kept trying to find the right time, but you know how that is. It doesn’t exist, not really.”

“You don’t have to apologize, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he reassures her, “I understand.”

“I know, but that almost makes it worse. You’re too good. I’m such a shitshow.”

He laughs. “On the contrary, you’re the only thing about this ball that isn’t.”

Riley hesitates. “Not to be weird or anything, but can I… can I ask who told you?”

“About you and Maxwell?”

Hearing Liam actually say his name sends a rush of something through her. It’s as if he’s made it real, now; as if something about him knowing has elevated the quiet nothingness of their relationship into a profound and essential Thing.

“Yeah,” she whispers.

Liam looks pensive. “No one told me. I mean, not exactly. It’s just that I’ve known everyone here all my life, and when you’re around someone for that long you notice when things… change.” He glances at her with a smile. “You’ve been a catalyst for a lot of that, here.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I wasn’t entirely sure at first, it was just a hunch. But you know how Maxwell is: never stops talking, terrible at lying, loyal to a fault. He’s always been at the center of things. And then you came along, and…”

Liam turns to her, his expression thoughtful. “He was so guarded about you. So careful. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Maxwell be careful about anything in his life.”

“He’s careful about the important things,” Riley says softly.

“He used to spend hours talking you up to me, working on distractions so you and I could be alone together. He wanted you to succeed in all of this, that much was evident. And it was gradual, the way he stopped bringing you up, the shorter and shorter conversations, but of course I noticed. He wanted you to succeed… and then he wanted _you_.”

Liam sighs, the quietest moment of weakness slipping out. “I guess I didn’t realize as quickly that you wanted him too.”

“Yeah, you and me both.” Riley swings her legs under the bench, shivering slightly as a breeze brushes her bare shoulders. “Trust me, when I decided to come to a tiny foreign country to compete for a chance to be royalty, this is the last outcome I expected.”

Liam laughs. “It _is_ rather ridiculous, I suppose.”

“Will you be alright, though?” Riley glances up at him, worried. “Madeleine told me there’s this law or something, that you have to get married to be on the throne?”

“Oh, that.” He waves a hand dismissively. “It doesn’t actually matter, I can change it after the coronation. It’s not as if we have any alternate governing body. This is an absolute monarchy; I can basically do whatever I want. Honestly, it’s a little strange we haven’t had some sort of democratic revolution yet.”

“Not on your first year agenda?”

“Not yet, no.” He smiles at her, and the sadness in his eyes has almost faded out. “Riley… I hope that you won’t find it awkward to be at court after this. I don’t have many friends, and although I know it may not have been my initial intention, I should hope to remain friends with you.”

“Oh, Liam,” Riley bumps her shoulder against his, “Of course. And I’m not just saying that because you’re about to be king of an absolute monarchy and can basically do whatever you want.”

He laughs again, standing up from the bench and brushing off his jacket before reaching out a hand to help her up. She’s only slightly unsteady on her heels until her feet catch purchase in the cobblestones, and she rests a hand on Liam’s arm to regain her balance.

His eyes meet hers, only inches away, and she feels that gentle tug in her chest again. In another life, maybe; in another timeline, she could be his queen.

But not this one.

They walk back to the palace in silence, Liam with his hands in his pockets, surveying the grounds. Now he is the one desperate not to meet her eyes, though she doesn’t blame him. Even though Liam tries to be the picture of strength, of nobility, he’s only human.

His lips brush across her cheek for the briefest moment when they part at the door. “You don’t have to stay,” he tells her, and she reaches out and squeezes his hand.

He’s swallowed up into the palace before she can think of anything real to say back. And she knows it’s not goodbye, not really – but it certainly is an ending.

She closes her eyes, breathing in deeply. The emotional turmoil of this night (of the last few days, really) has been weighing far too heavily on her soul. Liam’s blessing seems to have unlocked something in her, released the dam on her heart and flooded her body with feeling.

When she opens her eyes, she knows exactly what needs to be done.

The ballroom is still teeming with people, although many have begun edging towards the bar. A quick glance around the room doesn’t return any hits, and Riley frowns, wondering where to look next. As Liam mentioned, Maxwell is usually at the center of everything, and she can’t imagine what’s more central than this.

She catches Drake still pouting near the hors d’oeuvres, her skirts bunched in one hand as she tries her best to run towards him in those damn stiletto heels. He looks over at her when the frantic click of her shoes gets close, then crosses his arms and watches her approach, amused.

“You’re such a dick,” Riley says, bracing herself on the wall so she doesn’t trip. “It’s not easy to get around in these things, you know. You could’ve moved.”

“Why move when you’re already en route?”

“Dick.” She pauses to take in a deep breath, embarrassed at how winded her wobbly half-jog has made her. Maybe she needs to take Maxwell up on that offer to accompany his morning runs, although the thought of him seeing her like this is mortifying.

“Do you know where Maxwell went?” she asks, straightening up and rolling her shoulders back, hoping good posture will eliminate the residual humiliation. “He was in here last I saw him, but then I got, uh — otherwise detained.”

Drake sighs. “You’re a piece of work, Aldridge.”

“Oh, fuck you. I should’ve just asked Hana.” Riley looks out at the room, running a quick sweep before turning back to Drake. “Um, where’s Hana?”

“Seriously?”

“Look Drake, you’re not my ideal conversation partner right now either.”

He laughs sardonically, but there’s a hint of affection in his eyes. Drake can talk all the shit he wants, but she knows she’s his weak spot. Well, her and Liam. And whiskey.

“I haven’t been keeping tabs on Hana,” he says, “But Maxwell went looking for _you_ a while ago, so he’s probably lost. Good luck with that.”

Riley makes a frustrated sound. “Do you have your phone? I should just call him.”

Drake reaches into his pocket and hands her something that may have possibly been a phone, once, but now resembles a sort of conceptual idea of a phone as designed by a seven-year-old fresh into the twenty-first century.

Riley stares at it. “Drake, what the fuck is this? What am I supposed to do with this? Oh my god, is that an _antenna_?”

“Yeah,” he frowns, seemingly unaware of her horror at this technological trashcan. “I don’t get great reception at the palace. It helps if you pull it out.”

Riley groans. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Okay, nevermind — how do you text someone on this thing? You’ve got Max’s number, right?”

“I don’t have texting.”

Riley blinks. “Sorry, repeat?”

He shrugs. “It’s a waste of money. I mean, why text someone when you can just talk to them?”

“What in god’s name —” Riley barely stifles an angry shriek. “Drake, you’re useless. Why the _fuck_ didn’t I pick a dress with pockets? I’m going to go find him myself; take your stupid prehistoric waste of plastic.” She shoves the offending object back into his hands before turning her back and starting off towards the very door she had just entered.

Figures.

“Sometimes you can get service on the third-floor balcony?” Drake offers. Riley lets out a final disgusted sigh before quickening her pace. The sooner she is away from this dude, the better.

It’s a much overdue blessing that when she pushes open the ballroom door, she nearly runs into Maxwell. Just the sight of him is enough to make her stumble forward, her shoe catching the marble with an ill-placed step.

He grabs her shoulders to catch her, visibly flustered. “Riley?! Oh, thank _god_. Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere, I even asked _Bastien_ , but no one knew where you were, no one had even seen you in ages, and I thought —”

Riley takes his face in her hands and kisses him quiet, her lips curling in a smile against his, giddy and breathless and warm. She doesn’t pull back until she absolutely has to — until laughter spills out of her lungs and she can’t keep the grin away any longer.

She beams up at his bewilderment. “Oh Max, you have no idea how good it is to see you.”

“I — uh,” he blinks, mouth turning up in a confused smile. “Thanks? Or, um, you too?”

“Let’s go,” she says, brushing her thumb along his cheekbone, “Let’s just leave.”

“What?”

“Right now, let’s just —” she tilts her head towards the end of the hallway, “We can just run away, before anyone says anything.”

“Riley,” his brings a hand off her shoulder to curl his fingers gently around her wrist, just as her fingers thread into his hair. “What are you talking about?”

But the question is already answered as she brings her lips back to his, stepping closer and wrapping her free arm around his neck. His hands find her waist and she falls into him, clutching at his shirt as she opens her mouth against his, and suddenly everything is a blur of soft and hard and need and want and more than anything, hope.

She leans into his touch, eyes closed, head swirling with every wasted moment that has led to this. It’s like a dream: the sense of detachment she feels as they pull each other closer, the heady drunkenness of her hands as she struggles to find a hold on his shoulder. They’re breathing too loud, touching too soft, loving too hard.

She lets out a shuddery sigh and feels him rest his forehead against hers.

“Riley…” he says, voice soft. She can feel his eyelashes brush against her cheek, and her fingers dig in against his back, trying in vain to grasp at the strings of their ephemeral moment and keep it from drifting away.

They look at each other, inches apart.

“I want to run away with you,” she tells him, “Right now. I want to run away with you and I want you to say yes.”

“Where would we go?”

“I don’t know — anywhere. McDonalds, for all I care. I just want to say fuck it to all this courtly shit and nobility and be with you. Like, properly _with_ you.”

“Properly?”

“Yeah.” She bites her lip. “You’re my best friend, you know?”

Maxwell takes her hands in his, and he’s looking at her so intensely she feels the blush pool hot in her cheeks. “You’re mine too.”

She dips her head, hoping to hide the burning spreading through her face. “I’m always yours.”

He smiles.

“ _What_ ,” bellows a new voice, echoing down the hallway with footsteps far too angry for a ball, “in the _crown’s_ name —”

They both turn, hands still clasped between them, and Riley whispers, “Fuck.”

Bertrand looks equal parts flabbergasted and livid, his expression twitching between the two as if he can’t quite make up his mind which is more applicable. He is walking much too quickly, the furrow in his brow getting more defined by the second, and Riley grips Maxwell’s hand tighter while also fearing slightly for his life.

“Did I just — did _you_ just —” he comes to a halt in front of them, out of breath for more reasons than one and seemingly unable to string together a coherent sentence. “Have either of you ever — did you even _once_ consider —”

“Down to run away whenever you are,” Maxwell says under his breath.

“Have the both of you _lost your damn minds_?!” Bertrand throws his hands up, eyes wild. “All of the work, all of the time and _money_ that we have spent, ensuring that this occasion would be one of restorative glory for our household — and the entire time the two of you have been sneaking around… _fraternizing_?”

“How long have you been standing there?” Riley asks tentatively. “Because technically we were friendzoning each other at the end.”

He gives her a look so withering that she takes a hasty step behind Maxwell.

“You should both be grateful that I am the one who ran in on this abhorrent exchange instead of someone who might have let it slip to the Prince, or else _this_ —” he gestures sharply at the door of the ballroom, “would be _over_.”

“Oh, um,” Riley says, “Well, about that.”

“Bertrand,” Maxwell starts, “Look, you have to give us a second to —”

Riley raises her voice. “Liam knows.”

“ _What_?” Bertrand hisses, at the same time Maxwell looks down at her in shock, “You told him?”

“I didn’t tell him,” she answers Maxwell, meeting his eyes and trying to pretend it’s just the two of them. “Or, well, I _did_ tell him, eventually. But he already knew. He said he guessed.”

“He _guessed_?” Bertrand is losing his mind. “How long has this been going on for? Has the entire palace been in on this ridiculous affair?!”

“It doesn’t matter.” Riley takes a deep breath, turning back to face him. “Liam knows, and he’s not going to marry me, and I’m not going to be queen.”

“There’s still time,” Bertrand says desperately, “Maybe if you talk to him, if you just explain the situation, perhaps he would be willing to overlook the indiscretion?”

“Oh my god, this is not an ‘ _indiscretion_ ,’” Maxwell says, a sharpness in his tone that Riley hasn’t heard before. “You have to stop treating Riley like some tool to get back in the court’s good graces. It’s nobody’s fault but yours that things ended up this way, and you can’t expect anyone but yourself to clean up the mess you made.”

Bertrand scoffs. “What are you insinuating, that our current state of affairs is _my_ fault?”

“Yes.” Maxwell’s resolve doesn’t waver, but Riley can feel his fingers tighten in hers. “And you know exactly what I’m talking about, unless you conveniently forgot the _last_ girl you tried to send packing?”

Riley glances between the two of them, confused. Clearly there are a lot more secrets in this family than anticipated. Who needs to keep up with the Kardashians when you have the Cordonian nobility?

“This… this is absurd,” Bertrand sputters, clearly taken aback by Maxwell’s unexpected turn on the offensive. “Both of you are coming with me, and we’re going to fix this. We’ll set things straight; we have to. Perhaps Prince Liam misunderstood, he’ll be gracious, he —”

“I said,  _it doesn’t matter_!” Riley shouts, startling the both of them. “Maxwell and I are in love, and we’re running away together, okay?!”

Bertrand blinks.

“But not like, far,” Maxwell interjects quietly, “I mean, we’ll be back.”

Bertrand rubs his temples, visibly distressed. “I absolutely cannot condone this. Will you not stop?”

Riley loops her arm in Maxwell’s, pulling him closer. “No?”

“You could at least be definitive.” Bertrand sighs. “Perhaps I should have expected this from both of you, since you seem entirely incapable of doing what I ask. Why _not_ go full speed in the completely opposite direction?”

“Good idea,” Maxwell says, squeezing Riley’s hand. She looks up at him, raising an eyebrow, and he raises one back, and then before she even has a chance to squeeze his hand back in confirmation, they take off towards the other end of the hall.

“What do you think you’re _doing_?!” Bertrand yells from behind them.

Riley can’t help the rush of giggles that break free from her at his voice, the sound punctuated by the echoes of her and Maxwell’s footfalls in the vast hallway. “Running away together!” she calls out in response, not looking back.

She almost trips as she steadies her hurried steps on her toes (these ridiculous shoes much louder and higher than they need to be) before the two of them barrel into a side door and stumble out onto the garden.

Riley is breathless, hopping on one foot as she undoes the clasp on her heels, kicking the shoes off with a deft shake of each ankle, then running out towards the lawn to grab them. Maxwell follows her, laughing too, and she holds up the shoes in one hand like a prize.

“We did it,” she grins, “We even beat Bertrand. That’s final boss type stuff right there.”

“Sorry about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I didn’t mean to go off at him.”

Riley tilts her head, tracing a finger down his arm. “I don’t know, it was kinda hot.”

Maxwell laughs so hard at this that she smacks him with a shoe. “Shut _up_! It kinda was!”

“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind next time I fight with my brother. Real romantic stuff right there.”

“You’re the worst,” Riley wrinkles her nose at him, but can’t quite suppress her smile. “What’s his deal anyway? I can’t possibly piss him off _that_ much, right?”

“He’s not good at emotions. Or like, relationships. He’s got — um, girl trouble.”

Riley barks out a laugh. “With who?”

“You’d be surprised.”

He slings an arm around her shoulders, and she wraps hers around his back, shoes still dangling from her other hand, and the two of them set off across the damp grass of the palace lawn. They don’t really have a destination, now that the running is over, but that’s okay.

“Oh! I’ve been meaning to tell you all night,” Riley says, feet sinking into the earth with each step. “I think Olivia is into Drake.”

“Olivia? Olivia _Nevrakis_?”

“Yes, oh my _god_ , right? She said the weirdest thing to me in the bathroom.”

“How weird?”

“Like, ‘ _I want to fuck Drake_ ’ weird.”

“ _No_.”

“I’m serious!”

“That’s simultaneously the worst and best thing I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re welcome.”

Riley feels her feet hit the cool cobblestones of the main walkway, the lights of the city edging up over the hedges beyond. She pauses, her heartbeat loud in her chest, a sounding drum for the bridge in their lopsided melody. Maxwell halts along with her, his eyes falling on hers in a question.

“Let’s steal a car,” she says.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Well — I mean, first of all you’d have to find a car to steal, and then you’d have to know _how_ to steal it, and then there’s the matter of the King’s Guard.” Maxwell is rubbing gentle circles against her shoulder blade with his thumb. Riley’s not even sure if he’s aware he’s doing it, but her heart swells. “So like, once you get past all of that stuff. Sure.”

“Doesn’t Liam have like a hundred cars or something? What’s the point of being royal if you don’t have a hundred cars?”

“What’s the point indeed.”

“And the second part — we can just google that.” She frowns. “Wait, shit. I don’t have my phone. Do you have yours?”

“Yeah, but service is notoriously terrible at the palace.”

“Again, what _is_ the fucking point of being royal.”

“Pretty much nothing when you put it that way.”

She sighs, letting her head fall against his shoulder, shoes swinging from tired fingers. “What if we just call an Uber and go home?”

“What’s… Uber?”

Riley jerks her head back up, suddenly too exhausted for this. “No, do _not_ tell me that Cordonia doesn’t have Uber. I will personally march back into that goddamn ballroom and scream in Liam’s face until he calls the fucking CEO himself and gets that shit set up, I’m not even kidding, I am _dead serious_ —”

Maxwell is laughing, eyes alight with that all too familiar mischief, and she feels herself slump back against him. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“Of course we have Uber,” He’s got his phone out in his free hand, the glow of the screen illuminating his smile. “You’re too easy, you know that?”

“I’m not easy,” Riley grumbles against his shoulder. He kisses the top of her head.

“Whatever you say.”

Their driver looks thoroughly unimpressed upon arrival, despite the resplendent glamour of the palace behind them. As Maxwell opens the door for Riley, the driver gives her a look through the open window.

“No shoes, no shirt, no service.”

Riley holds up her heels, now dangling from a single finger. “Shoes.” She nods towards Maxwell, who’s trying not to laugh at her. “Shirt.”

“Well, I’m charging extra if you make a mess,” the man grumbles, turning back towards the road. Riley drops down into the backseat in a huff.

“You know he’s like, basically a Duke?” she says loudly, leaning forward and making eye contact in the rear-view mirror. Maxwell slides in on his side and pulls her back, and she scrunches up her face, but leans in against his shoulder anyway. “What? You are.”

“Bertrand’s the Duke, not me. It’s much less impressive with the qualifier.” The driver has fully tuned them out at this point, and Riley closes her eyes, reaching down to fold Maxwell’s hand in hers as he shuts his door.

“Okay, but what if some terrible accident befalls Bertrand?”

“Title goes to his heir.”

Riley laughs. “ _What_ heir?”

“Um — I mean like, hypothetically, if he had a child with a secret fling who consequently went into hiding somewhere like, I don’t know, France or whatever. Then, y’know — heir.”

“Sounds juicy,” Riley murmurs. “We can only dream of Bertrand leading such a dramatic lifestyle.”

“Mhmm.” Maxwell sighs. “More like a nightmare.”

The further they get from the palace, the more Riley feels the tension of the coronation night slipping away from her. It’s a welcome relief, a lightness in her shoulders and in her heart that she hasn’t felt in weeks. Maxwell is warm against her side, and she can feel her eyelids getting heavier as the streetlights become fewer and far-between.

“Max?” she says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

He turns to look at her, and she blinks up at him from her spot nestled into his side, hoping he understands exactly what she means.

She’s half asleep when they finally pull in at the Beaumont estate, her shoes still loosely clutched in one hand as she emerges, bleary-eyed, from the car. Maxwell is a few steps away, fiddling with the payment on his phone, and she watches him illuminated in the glow of the screen.

He looks up finally, catching her staring. “What?”

“Nothing, I just…” she sucks in a deep breath, chewing on her bottom lip. “I’m glad this is happening. You and me.”

“Yeah,” He offers her his arm and she takes it, the two of them heading up the walkway to the entrance. “’We’re in love and we’re running away together,’ right?”

“That was — look, it was thematically appropriate phrasing at the time, okay?”

He slips his hand into hers, fingers falling into place like they were always meant to. “You would be a terrible poker player Riley.”

“Oh, shut up.”

The door opens before they’ve even made it up the stairs, one of the staff members emerging from behind with a demure bow. Maxwell pauses in a brief moment of panic, watching as her eyes flick between their clasped hands and Riley’s disheveled appearance.

“Lord Beaumont, Lady Aldridge,” she says carefully, “We didn’t expect you back this early. Everyone’s been following the coronation proceedings on television.” Her tone is pointed as she raises one deliberate eyebrow. “Very _interesting_ waiting to see which of _his suitors_ the prince will choose.”

Riley feels the heat in her face, but Maxwell is moving again, pulling her after him, taking the stairs two at a time.

“That’s great, that’s wonderful,” He’s talking even faster than he’s walking, striding past the judgmental gaze with each word. “Then you’ll know the whole thing was terribly stuffy. Huge bore. Not our kind of scene at all, old nobles and all that. Figured we would just get the highlights later, leave the ceremony to Bertrand.”

The woman shuts the entrance doors behind them, the air of propriety still heavy around her even as Maxwell practically drags Riley down the hallway and out of her presence. “My apologies sir, the Duke informed us that you wouldn’t be back for several days, otherwise I would have prepared —”

“Don’t worry about it!” Maxwell chimes back, already halfway through another doorway as Riley hurries after him. “I’ll let you know if I need anything!”

Riley kicks the door shut behind them, sinking down into a nearby couch and dropping her shoes on the side table. “Jesus,” she says dryly, “Suddenly I’m thankful for my common upbringing.”

“It’s not the worst thing she’s caught me doing, that’s for sure,” Maxwell runs a hand through his hair. “But given the circumstances… I guess it ranks.”

“Ooo, storytime?”

Maxwell drops down next to her on the couch, wrapping an arm around the back so his fingertips brush her shoulder. “Only if you’re lucky.”

She kisses his cheek. “I’m always lucky. What room is this?”

“It’s a parlor room,” He answers. “No one should come in here — at least, none of the staff.” He glances over, sheepish. “Or Drake.”

Riley laughs, but it turns into a yawn midway through. “You and your staff… _sir_.”

“ _Lady_.”

She grins, reaching up to brush the hair off his forehead, fingers lingering along the side of his face. “Is she going to tell on us?”

“Oh, absolutely.” He catches her hand, kissing the inside of her wrist. “This is some prime gossip; I imagine she’s already sent out a news bulletin.”

“I can see the headline,” Riley yawns again, leaning into his side. “’Desperate Love Affair Exposed: King’s Former Suitor Caught Barefoot with Almost-Duke.’”

He makes a face. “Don’t focus on the barefoot, that makes it sound foot fetish-y.”

“Hmm, okay… ‘Waitress Gets Biggest Tip of Her Life’?”

“ _God_ , Riley, seriously?”

Riley closes her eyes, her laughter just barely audible. “S’like a bad porno.”

“There’s your headline,” Maxwell says.

She blinks one eye open, blearily looking up at him. “I can’t believe the one time we’re actually alone… and all I wanna do is sleep with you.”

A pause, then she adds, “Like, the sleeping kind.”

He laughs, eyes bright. “I gathered.”

“But the other kind too,” She sighs, tucking her feet up. “Gonna jump you in the morning, okay?”

“Mmhm,” he replies, resting his head on hers as she nestles in against him, “And we can get brunch.”

“Waffles.”

“Belgian waffles.”

“And mimosas.”

“And pineapple.”

In a moment of clarity, she sits up, touching his shoulder until he looks back at her, their faces a breath apart.

“Hey,” she says, voice suddenly low, “I don’t wanna make this weird, or weirder than it already is, but I just need you to know —“

He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “You don’t have to say it. We have time. We’ll have so much time to say it.”

She lets out a breath of nervous air. “Do you think… do you think we’re gonna be good? I mean, with everything going on and all this stuff… do you think there’s a happy ending for us?”

He kisses her forehead, pulls her closer in to his side. “Why would you want an ending?”

Her heart swells with something deep and gentle, a touch not unlike the drowsy tug of sleep already pulling her from reality. And maybe that’s what this is — a break, a piece of time pulled separate from the rest. A little moment all their own.

She closes her eyes, already halfway to a dream.


End file.
